


Twelve Years of Christmas

by brookebond



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Christmas, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, both of them are idiots, only Mal dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-13 11:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12983004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookebond/pseuds/brookebond
Summary: Twelve years worth of Christmases with Arthur and Eames.





	1. It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I kind of came up with as a spur of the moment thing at the beginning of December and I had planned for it to be posted on the twelve days of Christmas but as we all know, I'm impatient. Super impatient.
> 
> This is currently half written with the plan of posting daily until it's finished.
> 
> Special shout out to renn, oceaxe, deinvati, and pinky for having a look over this while I complained about my 'super secret project' on the Inception slack. You are all the absolute best!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGBie5pT9nw) by Johnny Mathis
> 
> Arthur POV (age 19)

He ran a finger around the edge of the card, wishing he could see his family, tell them what he was doing, where he was being shipped off to. But that was part of his new assignment: total radio silence. The only thing he had been allowed to tell them was that he was leaving base. It had frustrated him to no end. Arthur didn’t keep secrets from his mother, from his  _ family _ , and he had to cut them out of his life entirely. But his loyalty was to the Marines now. Semper fidelis and all that entailed.

“Corporal Beckett,” Major Allen barked, snapping Arthur to attention.

He stood, the card floating to the floor.

“Follow me,” the major said, turning sharply and not waiting. It had been drilled into Arthur to follow orders and this was a basic one. He’d been waiting for someone to collect him all morning. Arthur had thought it would be one of the scientists so they could begin testing, but since it was the major, Arthur assumed there were more hurdles to jump.

“This is the last one?” a female asked, shocking Arthur enough to stumble his next step.

“Corporal Beckett.” The major gestured for him to step forward. “Mallorie Cobb.”

It took Arthur a few seconds to realise what he was meant to do. It had been too long since he had heard the French lilt to a voice and he was instantly reminded of his mother, her voice floating in his head as this woman in front of him spoke.

“Have a seat,” she said after the major had excused himself.

Arthur did as he was told. He excelled at taking orders and it was one of the driving factors as to why he had been promoted so fast. It also helped that Arthur didn’t ask questions. Well, only when he needed extra details and that wasn’t often.

“We have a few preliminary tests to run before we can be certain you fill our requirements.”

Arthur watched as she flittered around the room, noting the shiny silver case and five vials filled with yellow liquid sitting on a bench next to him. Before Arthur could ask any questions about what was in the vials, Mallorie was there, syringe in hand.

“You’ll feel a little pinch.”

Arthur twitched, the sudden intrusion surprising him. He’d expected there to be more of a conversation, maybe a discussion about what she was going to do  _ before _ she went and stuck a needle in him.

—

“Mom?” he called, pushing the bright red door open but there was no response.

That was strange.

All the decorations were up, tinsel decorating the fireplace, baubles hanging from the freshly cut tree, cups on the table. It looked as though everyone had just stepped out.

“Mom? Dad?”

No one was there.

Arthur wandered into the kitchen, hoping to find a sign of life.

A creak over his head halted him, heart quickening as he turned and climbed the stairs as quietly as possible. He didn’t want to scare anyone off just yet.

Without a weapon, it was slow going but Arthur checked each room. They were all empty. There was only one left to check at the end of the hall. His bedroom.

He pushed the door open, regretting that he had arranged it in a way where he could see who was coming in but they couldn’t see him.

“Took you long enough,” an unfamiliar voice called, startling Arthur so much he actually stumbled through the doorway. “Do be careful, wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” He stepped forward, bringing the stranger into view.

_ He _ was spread out on Arthur’s bed, legs crossed, arms folded beneath his head.

“Trying to sleep.”

“You’re— what?”

“Bit slow,” he hummed. “They didn’t mention that.”

Arthur frowned, trying to find meaning in the words but coming up short. “What have you done with my family?”

“Nothing. Didn’t even see them.” The person swung their legs over the edge of the bed, standing and stepping forward to close the space between them.

“Get out,” Arthur said, fingers twitching, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

The sudden shift in positioning had thrown him, not to mention the whole fact that this guy was breathtaking with his plush lips and stubble.

“Don’t think so,” the stranger said, circling Arthur, warmth lingering and making Arthur far too aware of how close he was.

“Excuse me?” he croaked, attempting to recall his training. He’d spent months in basic and knew enough to take this guy down if he was fast enough.

“How did you get here?” the person asked as though it was a completely normal change of conversation. It did tickle something in the back of his mind, though.

How  _ did _ he get there?

“I came from...” No matter how hard he tried, Arthur couldn’t remember anything past being at the base and meeting Mallorie. “What did you do to me?”

“Little bit of this… Little bit of that… Oh, don’t look so scandalised,” he added, clearly noting Arthur’s horrified expression. “You’re perfectly safe, Arthur.”

A faint rumble vibrated through the house.

“How do you know my name?”

“Everything’s alright,” he said, stepping forward, trying to grab Arthur but Arthur stepped back, twisting out of his reach.

“Who are you?”

The rumble grew louder, shaking the house.

“I’m Eames, okay?” It sounded like a question but Arthur had heard that tone before, it was placating, empty and hollow in a way that was designed to make people feel better.

It wasn’t helping.

“I’m Eames and you’re Arthur. You can’t remember how you got here because you’re dreaming.”

Something about those words stuck in Arthur’s brain, playing on a loop. But it made a strange sort of sense. There was an odd quality to everything, things were slightly off—now that he actually looked.

He wasn’t in the house he had grown up in.

It was all a dream.

“How are we—?”


	2. Mistletoe and Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mistletoe and Wine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0zaDApGBbI) by Cliff Richard
> 
> Eames POV (age 23)

It was hard to believe the holiday season was upon them again. It felt as though it was only yesterday that Arthur had been initiated into Project Somnacin, that Eames had been the first person to dream with him. But it had been a whole year and now, to celebrate, they had snuck wine onto the base and were toasting their good fortune.

“No, no,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “That’s not how it happened  _ at all _ .”

“Eames told me all about it, mon chou. No use denying anything now.” Mal smiled, leaning against Dom, glass still in hand even though it looked as though she was going to fall asleep.

“He lied,” Arthur pouted.

Eames wanted to chime in, offer his own insight to the memory of the first time they’d all met, but he couldn’t get his mouth to move. If he actually said anything, he was positive it would be an embarrassing comment on how Arthur’s lips were stained red and how Eames wanted to run a finger over it just to see if he could be stained as well.

It had been a long year, realising he had inconvenient feelings for a colleague. Eames had spent months pretending that he didn’t feel anything, trying to make Arthur hate him so it would be easier when they all eventually parted ways. But, no matter how hard he tried, Arthur was still stuck in Eames’ head with his adorable dimples and slender fingers.

“He was on my bed,” Arthur announced, entirely scandalised.

“He does that frequently,” Dom added, eyes not actually on Arthur but rather on Mal and where he was tracing circles on her shoulder.

“Well… yeah… but,” Arthur stumbled over the words, the wine clearly catching up to him.

It was easy to forget that Arthur was younger than the rest of them and was entirely unused to consuming alcohol. Seeing him as he was—cheeks flushed from the booze, dimples out in full force—it was obvious. Eames should have felt bad for feeling as he did, wanting Arthur as more than just a friend, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but like he actually had good taste for once in his life.

“Arthur enjoys me in his bed,” Eames said, winking and grinning when Arthur shot him a look.

“You just don’t understand personal space,” he muttered, taking another sip of his drink, tongue swiping to catch the droplets on his lower lip.

Eames needed to get fresh air before he did something stupid.

He stood, muttering an excuse about needing to use the bathroom and slipped from the room. He knew they were all watching as he left but he didn’t care. He needed to escape and clear his head.

Throughout the year, it had been hard being around Arthur basically every hour of every single day but he had the sanctuary of his own room to retreat to at the end of their sessions. Celebrating together into the small hours wasn’t giving him any breathing room.

The crisp night air curled around Eames, cooling his overheated body. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself, leaning against the brick wall. He itched for a cigarette, fingers twitching without something to do. He’d left the pack inside, though, under his mattress because he’d managed to convince Arthur that he was giving up the dirty habit. A part of him felt terrible about lying but the other, much larger part, needed the nicotine and he was just tipsy enough to consider going back in to get them.

“Eames,” Arthur said, leaning against the wall beside him.

Clearly he was slipping, if he hadn’t noticed Arthur following him.

“Everything alright?” Eames asked, trying to play it cool and not like he’d run away on purpose.

“Pretty sure I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine, darling.” Eames winced at the endearment. It was hard to break a habit, especially one that had started accidentally. “What are you doing out here? And without a jacket.”

“Mal pulled out some mistletoe.”

Eames hummed, understanding entirely too well. He’d known Mal longer than Arthur had and had mistakenly let her hang mistletoe up previously. Dodging the terrible little thing had been much harder than he had originally thought it would be. If she’d pulled it out this year, Eames was certain he didn’t actually want to go back into that room.

“Merry Christmas,” Arthur murmured, leaning just a little bit into Eames’ side.

Eames tried not to react, tried not to let on how every part of his brain had zeroed in on where they were touching. “Merry Christmas,” he replied, voice tighter than he wanted it to be. He just hoped Arthur didn’t notice.

“I can’t believe it’s been a whole year,” Arthur sighed. “I haven’t talked to my mom in forever.”

That certainly helped quell the rising attraction for the time being. “Do you want to?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eames could see Arthur frowning up at him and wondered if he was about to be punched in the jaw.

“Of course I want to,” Arthur scoffed. “What kind of question is that?”

“You could. If you wanted.”

“No, I can’t.”

Eames pushed off the wall and faced Arthur, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Do you trust me?”

Arthur hesitated just that little bit too long but Eames didn’t care. In their line of work, trust was implicit and didn’t need to be said. Eames figured the hesitation was purely because they were talking about Arthur’s mother.

“Doesn’t matter. Follow me,” he said, trusting that Arthur would. He was the perfect little soldier, always doing as commanded without a second thought.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asked, breathing just a little bit hard as he caught up to Eames.

“Giving you an early Christmas present.”


	3. All Alone on Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [All Alone on Christmas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r1uJPGRfO5Y) by Darlene Love
> 
> Arthur POV (age 21)

Mal was late.

It was to be expected, of course. They hadn’t seen each other for three months. But she had promised they would meet on Christmas Eve in a tiny hole in the wall in Phoenix.

Arthur was there, nursing a drink—since he had recently turned twenty-one—but he was still alone. The multitude of people milling around weren’t exactly company but Arthur fit in amongst them, at least. He had a cap on in an attempt to hide his face and the hoodie he was wearing was purely to cover how slim he was. Most people, on first meeting him, always assumed that Arthur was an adolescent boy. Now he was merely attempting to look like a college kid that was home for the holiday season.

He had wanted to go home, see his family for the first time in years but he knew it would be an unnecessary risk for them. Instead, he’d been alone, attempting to not get caught.

It was hard being by himself after spending an entire year surrounded by friends, not having to go more than a few hours without seeing them if he didn’t want to. He supposed he would get used to it, much like he’d gotten used to not having his long hair. It had taken months to get used to the breeze on the back of his neck, the lack of water dripping from the lengths after a shower, using significantly less shampoo, but he had done it. If he could get used to that, he figured he would get used to being by himself as well.

“This seat taken?”

If he hadn’t spent years perfecting his game face, Arthur was sure he would have fallen off the stool. He didn’t say anything but tipped his head enough for Eames to get the idea that he was welcome to sit.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighbourhood,” he said, ordering a beer and thanking the bartender with a tip of the bottle.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Arthur said, barely resisting the urge to turn and look at Eames. It had been six months since he’d last laid eyes on Eames and there was a desire burning inside of him to take his fill because he had no idea how long they had.

“No, I suppose you weren’t,” Eames murmured, taking a long swig of his drink before turning on his stool to look at Arthur properly. “Mal sent me.”

“Are they okay?” he asked, unable to maintain his collected facade any longer.

Eames nodded. “Just a little trouble in Reno. I was already here so she got in touch and asked me to collect you.”

“Why didn’t she call me?” As much as Arthur loved seeing Eames—and maybe he loved it just a little bit  _ too _ much—he wished he had been Mal’s first point of contact.

“Doesn’t have your number, does she? None of us do,” Eames murmured in a way that, if it was anybody else, Arthur would have called forlornly.

“Fair point.”

“Come on then.” Eames downed the remainder of his beer as he stood. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“You know,” Arthur said, finishing off his own drink and following Eames out of the bar. “Everyone in there probably thinks you’ve just picked me up.” He wasn’t sure what made him say it and regretted that fourth glass of bourbon more so since it had loosened his tongue in a way that was both freeing and terrifying.

Eames glanced over his shoulder, face unreadable in the shadows of the night. “No one would think you’d settle for me, darling. Come on.” He didn’t wait for a response, most likely didn’t expect one, but Arthur desperately wanted to set him straight. But that would have been worse, finally admitting Arthur wanted Eames as more than just a friend.

Arthur wouldn’t be able to handle the embarrassment.

“Where are we going?” he asked in an attempt to cover the awkwardness.

“A safe house.”

“Of course.” Arthur slid into the truck Eames apparently was driving, refraining from commenting on how beat up the thing was. As long as it got him where he needed to go, Arthur wasn’t going to complain.

The drive was silent, as was to be expected, but Arthur found he didn’t mind. There was something comforting about being in Eames’ presence alone that was settling him. He had forgotten how things felt better when Eames was around. He wanted to ask why Eames had left, though. Wanted to know if it had been because of him, because of how Arthur had hugged him just that little bit too long after that phone call to his mom last Christmas. But that required opening up a whole can of worms Arthur wanted to leave alone. If his comment earlier had made Eames uncomfortable, he really didn’t want to ruin things even more.

But, as his father said, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Eames,” Arthur said softly as the engine cut out, plunging them into a darkness lit purely by the moon.

“Hmm?”

“Did you miss us when you left?” He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘me’ even though he wanted to. He wanted to know if Eames had thought about him at all during their time apart or if he had been easily forgettable.

“Of course.” Eames spoke so easily, the truth flowing without a beat of hesitation. He opened the door, complaining about the broken light as he climbed out.

“We missed you too,” he admitted quietly, positive Eames was out of earshot, adding, “I missed you more,” and jumping when Eames popped his head into the truck, smiling up at him. Even in the dim moonlight, it was the most amazing thing Arthur had ever seen.

“Come on, it’s warmer inside.”


	4. O Holy Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [O Holy Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhCfWS3Axig) by Anne Murray
> 
> Eames POV (age 25)
> 
> ***
> 
> It's a bit of a short one, sorry but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

He shouldn’t have been standing outside in the cold without a winter coat on. Being back home, actually home with his parents, was driving him bonkers. There was only so many times a day he could stand being questioned about why there wasn’t anyone special in his life. He’d escaped to the backyard around the time his pop had started asking why he was home for the holiday season and not deployed somewhere.

It was freezing and had begun snowing a few minutes earlier.

Eames’ thoughts turned to Arthur, something about the frozen flurry reminded him of the dark-haired man. He wished there was a way he could see Arthur. They’d somehow spent the last three Christmases in each other’s company and this year felt strangely empty without Arthur’s dry wit to entertain him. And, as long as Arthur wasn’t around to hear it, Eames desperately missed the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled after having just that bit too much to drink.

“Bugger,” he muttered and pulled out his phone. After the last Christmas in Phoenix, Eames had made sure he got Arthur’s number. There was no guarantee that it was still connected but he was willing to give it a shot just for the sake of hearing from him.

The only problem was that Eames didn’t have anything witty or interesting to say. Hell, he didn’t even have anything  _ important _ to say. If only he’d caught wind of a job, at least then he would have a valid reason for contacting Arthur other than just ‘I miss you terribly, please entertain me.’ He had no idea when he had turned into a lovesick fool but it wouldn’t do.

Eames slipped the phone back into his pocket and clasped his hands together, breathing into them to warm them up and turning his thoughts to other ventures. Or rather the lack thereof. It was why he’d ended up at his parents home, claiming to be on leave for a few weeks. Eames was out of money and out of jobs. Mal and Dom had promised him something in the new year but that was too far away for him to continue bouncing from city to city. Money was running out and he was seriously contemplating ringing Nicky to see if there was anyone looking for a few forgeries. It couldn’t hurt.

“Freddy, we’re leaving now,” his mother called, opening the back door and catching him trying to warm himself. “Where is your coat?” she asked, incredulous that her son was stupid enough to be out in the snow without any sort of warm clothing. Admittedly, Eames was regretting his decision.

“Just a tick,” he replied, waving her off and ignoring the blatant eyeroll he got in return.

Eames pulled his phone out, opened the camera, and took a quick snap of the snow. He hoped the number he had still worked.

[ _ Merry Christmas, darling. Is it snowing where you are? _ ]

He waited for the whoosh of confirmation that it had sent before following his mother to the car. Wherever Arthur was, Eames hoped he was enjoying the holiday season and quietly admitted to himself that he hoped Arthur was missing him like he was missing Arthur.

—

Eames was sitting in a pew wedged between his mother and pop when his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. It took every ounce of stealth he possessed to check it but when he did, he couldn’t stop the goofy grin from spreading.

Arthur had sent him a picture.

There were small flakes of snow dusting Arthur’s dark hair, a pair of earmuffs making him seem more adorable than the dimples pressing into his cheeks.

[ _ Merry Christmas, Eames. _ ]


	5. Let It Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Let It Snow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mN7LW0Y00kE) by Dean Martin
> 
> Arthur POV (age 23)
> 
> ***
> 
> Forgive me.
> 
> I also just realised that I should probably point out that there's a three year age gap between Arthur and Eames in this fic. So if that helps anyone with the whole relevance of the ages for chapters. It all revolves around the twelve years. I hope it makes sense.

Arthur couldn’t contain the eyeroll as soon as the familiar tune filtered over to him. He wondered if anyone in the small country thought it was ridiculous that they played songs about snow and chilly winter days when it was hot and humid enough that Arthur was absolutely regretting wearing his jacket.

The suits were a new venture, something Mal had introduced him to in an attempt to help him command more attention. He had a baby face, she’d told him, and so he needed to find another way to make people take him seriously. Three piece suits had seemed like an easy way to do that. But the disgusting weather in Auckland was making him seriously reconsider everything.

The meeting had gone well, Jones and Cross seeming happy enough with the first introduction to dreamshare. Arthur had to admit that they handled it all reasonably well and seemed eager enough to jump on board. Arthur hoped Mal would be as pleased with them as he was. She was, after all, the one to have final say over any new initiates that made it past the first phase.

But, with everything out of the way—since it didn’t take nearly as long as Arthur had planned for—Arthur had three days to spare in Auckland with nothing to do. The only solace was that Eames was in the country as well.

It had been deemed high risk sending Arthur halfway around the world by himself which essentially made Eames a babysitter. Arthur couldn’t bring himself to care, not when he was graced with seeing Eames sans shirt each morning and that was more than enough to carry Arthur through the next three Christmases and birthdays.

Well, and at that very moment because Eames was doing laps in the hotel pool which clearly meant he was shirtless and  _ wet _ .

“Hop in the water, darling,” Eames called, splashing said water at Arthur. “Get out of that stuffy suit and enjoy yourself for a change.”

It was tempting, truly tempting. The heat was stifling and Arthur knew the only way to solve the issue was to have a cold shower and that wasn’t really doing it for him at that exact moment.

“Give me five minutes.”

—

The water was divine.

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he had been swimming or let alone relaxed like he was right then; floating, face turned towards the sky. Finishing the meeting early wasn’t so bad if he got to enjoy a few beers and a nice swim and Eames’ half-naked splashing.

He wasn’t sure how many drinks he’d had but, judging by the bottles littering the poolside, Arthur had to assume it was too many to still be in the water. Was it safe to be drunk and in a pool?

“Only if you put your head under,” Eames called, answering a question Arthur was positive had only been said in his mind.

“Do you ever wonder if things would be different?”

“How so?”

Arthur sighed, shifting so he was no longer floating on his back, instead, moving slowly towards the edge to climb out. “If we’d met under different circumstances, do you think we’d be friends?”

“Of course,” Eames answered without hesitation. “Do you think we wouldn’t be?”

“I think about it all the time,” Arthur said, resting his hands on the edge but pausing before lifting himself out. “I wonder if you’d look at me the same, if you’d still call me darling or maybe it’d be something else…”

“Do I need to help you out, darling?” Eames asked, his voice a gentle caress against Arthur’s ear. He hadn’t noticed Eames swimming closer but now he could feel where Eames was pressed up against him, hands resting on his hips.

Arthur shook his head, suddenly mute in the face of Eames being so close. He turned, marvelling at the fact that Eames’ hands didn’t move at all. They were rough, calloused from years handling weaponry, but that made it thrilling. Arthur couldn’t believe his luck. Eames was touching him and didn’t seem to be moving away.

“I could lift you,” Eames offered softly. “It’s no trouble.”

“Eames,” Arthur murmured, sliding his hands over Eames’ shoulders, biting into his lower lip to stop himself from making a sound at how wonderful he felt. He noticed Eames’ eyes flicker down, tracking the movement, and there really was no stopping himself.

Arthur closed the space between them, pressing his lips to Eames’ in a kiss he hoped wasn’t too sloppy. Eames, however, stayed still, lips pursed together but not moving. It had been months since he’d kissed anyone and, in his experience, someone didn’t return a kiss if they weren’t interested.

Arthur had made a terrible mistake.

“Fuck,” Arthur muttered and scrambled away from Eames, trying to push at his shoulders to get away. “I’m sorry.”

Eames’ grip tightened on his hips, stilling Arthur as easily as if he had yelled.

Arthur chanced a glance at Eames’ face, his breath catching for just a second before Eames dove in, plush lips sliding against his own.

—

Arthur was never going to drink again. Never in a million fucking years.

He groaned, rolling over and wincing at the roughness of whatever he was lying on top of. It took a while to gather that he was on top of a towel and wondered how he had gotten there. The last thing he remembered was swimming the pool.

“Morning,” Eames said, looking far too cheery for Arthur’s liking.

“At least you didn’t say good,” Arthur mumbled, accepting the glass of water Eames offered him. “Please never let me drink like that again. Ever.”

“It wasn’t all bad, was it?”

Arthur frowned up at Eames, clutching the cool glass like a lifeline. “I can’t remember.” He shrugged, wincing at the throb the movement caused. “Thanks for not letting me drown, though.”


	6. It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFtb3EtjEic) by Andy Williams
> 
> Eames POV (age 27)

“Your turn,” Mal said, stuffing a compact box into his hands.

Elegant scrawl informed Eames that the gift was from Arthur and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at him.

Over the past year, Eames had tried desperately to distance himself from Arthur, unwilling to continue harbouring feelings for someone that got shitfaced and couldn’t even remember kissing him. Arthur had initiated the kiss, made the first move, and it had cut right to the bone when he hadn’t remembered anything about it the next morning. The only decision Eames could make in light of that was to give Arthur up, squash his feelings until they were dust.

The feelings weren’t gone. If anything, they were stronger than ever. Especially since Arthur was biting into his lower lip, nerves written plainly on his face.

Eames wasn’t exactly a strong man.

“Oh wow,” he breathed, staring into the small box.

“It’s an original 1950’s Oyster Royal Rolex,” Arthur said, speaking through the haze that had settled in Eames’ head. “I restored it the best I could but I had to put a new strap on. The old one was a little worse for wear and wouldn’t have lasted long.”

Eames pulled the watch out, forgetting about the box and inspecting the thing Arthur had apparently worked on _just for him_.

“Do you like it?”

“Like it?” Eames asked, entirely stunned by the thoughtfulness of the gift. “I love it.” His present for Arthur seemed like nothing in comparison. Actually, Eames rather wished he could take the bloody thing back but he watched, helpless, as Mal passed Arthur the ridiculously small box.

Eames had thought it would be a good idea, a funny little way to remember their time in Vegas a few months prior, but he was seriously regretting the joke. How was the small red die supposed to compare to the incredible watch?

“Seriously?” Arthur asked, voice tight with something Eames couldn’t place. “Eames…”

He winced in preparation for the feigned joy, the placating smile he had seen Arthur give so many times before.

But it didn’t come.

Arthur beamed at him, eyes sparkling in that youthful way that delighted Eames. It was moments like these that reminded Eames why he was so bloody head over heels for him.

“You like it?” he asked tentatively, unsure if he wanted to hear the honest truth. Maybe Arthur was just pretending to like it and would toss the little trinket when Eames wasn’t looking. His heart clenched at the thought, desperately hoping Arthur would keep it whether he liked it or not.

“It’s perfect,” Arthur breathed, rolling the die between his fingers, clearly taking note of the weight Eames had specifically asked for.

He wouldn’t have said he was a sentimental bastard but he’d had it weighted so it landed on Arthur’s birth month, April, the fourth month of the year. Part of him hoped Arthur would figure it out. Eames knew he would play ignorant, pretending that he had no idea when Arthur’s birthday was. But he wanted Arthur to know that he cared, that he paid attention. If only there was a way to find a safe ground between the two options.

“Oh, Dom look at this,” Mal gushed, tearing Eames’ attention away from Arthur who looked as though he was about to say something, maybe even call Eames out for the ridiculously tender present.

“Hermès?” Dom asked, squinting in Arthur’s direction.

“Oh hush,” Mal said, whacking Dom on the shoulder. “Just because you did not think of it, there is no need to be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he muttered, opening his own present from Arthur.

It was perfectly wrapped, corners neat, tiny pieces of tape holding it together along with a silver ribbon. All the gifts from Arthur had been wrapped stunningly and Eames tried not to mind that his own had been missing the ribbon. Perhaps Arthur had merely forgotten it. Much like other things.

Eames sighed, pulling the watch from the box and strapping it to his wrist. If he couldn’t have Arthur for real, he would settle for having something Arthur had spent hours—he assumed it was hours—labouring over. Better than nothing at all. Though, that thought didn’t help ease the ache that had permanently settled inside his chest after their time in New Zealand.

He traced a finger over the face, ignoring the happy chatter from the other three. They were discussing the presents, enraptured by showing off what they had gotten, but Eames wanted a moment of silence, a single solitary moment to himself.

Before he could excuse himself and make a quick getaway, Mal was there, shoving a glass of champagne into his face and demanding that they all toast their good fortune for having such wonderful friends.

Eames forced a smile, pretending that he wasn’t entirely focused on the strange sensation of having a watch on his arm.

“To many more successful years,” Dom said, raising his glass and slipping an arm around Mal’s shoulder.

“To many more,” they all chimed in.

Eames downed the entire glass, regretting it almost instantly as the bubbles settled uncomfortably in his chest.

“You alright,” Arthur asked, shifting closer as he noticed Eames’ discomfort.

“Perfect, darling,” Eames said, finding he meant the words more than he originally thought. “Absolutely perfect.”


	7. Last Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Last Christmas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8gmARGvPlIfollow) by Wham!
> 
> Arthur POV (age 25)
> 
> ***
> 
> I apologise in advance but if you have any issues, please take them up with somedrunkpirate. It was all her idea.

Arthur thought he would have been used to being alone by now but he missed Mal and Dom. Hell, he even missed Eames and was surprisingly willing enough to admit that to his face. If he had been there, that was.

Arthur was fairly certain that was the whiskey talking, though.

It had been a gift from Mal the previous month when they’d parted ways for who knew how long. Arthur desperately wished he could ring her, wish her a Merry Christmas, and hear her accent that reminded him so much of his mother.

His mother.

Arthur sighed, sinking into the armchair and pulling his phone from his pocket. He scrolled through the contacts, knowing that the number he had for Mal or Dom wouldn’t work. He’d told them to ditch the phones, destroy them if they could. He should have done it as well, tossed his phone at the earliest possible moment, but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the one connection he had to Eames.

Through the alcohol induced fog in his head, Arthur knew he could get in touch with Eames even without the number on his phone. He’d gotten better at uncovering things people didn’t want him to know. He was renowned for his research skills. People hired him  _ because _ of his research skills. It was fascinating to discover that people besides the Cobb’s or the Marines actually wanted him.

Arthur was ringing home before he was fully aware of what he was doing.

“Oui, allo?”

Arthur’s breath caught, eyes stinging as he fought to answer.

“Allo?” his mother repeated, tone weary in a way Arthur had never heard before.

“Hi, mom,” he whispered.

“Arthur? Arthur, is that you?”

From her voice alone, Arthur wanted to curl up in her arms, confess to everything he had done since he’d last spoken to her, tell her all about Eames, and how he was making a name for himself—albeit an illegal one. But he couldn’t form the words.

“Oh, mon loulou. What is wrong?”

How he wanted to tell her everything. “Nothing, mom. I’m fine.”

She sighed and Arthur could imagine the disapproving face that went with it. He’d seen it a million times growing up.

“Okay,” he said, giving in to the urge to tell her something honest. “There’s someone…”

“Someone,” she prompted, unable to hide her eagerness.

“It’s not like that.” Arthur dragged a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. Since having a shower, he’d left it to dry in the air and now it was ticking his nose. He really needed to get it cut.

“But you want it to be, yes?”

The answer was obvious, to both himself and his mother. Arthur wanted Eames as more than a friend, a colleague, but something had changed between them since they had both been in New Zealand. Arthur had spent hours trying to figure out what had happened but had only managed to narrow it down to something that had happened while he had been drunk. It was the only part of the trip he couldn’t remember and it bothered him to no end.

“Arthur?” his mother asked, her worry breaking through his reverie.

“Yes, I want it to be more.” Finally admitting it aloud didn’t help matters. In fact, Arthur felt ten times worse than he had before and groaned, gripping his hair as he leaned forward, essentially putting his head between his knees.

“Have you told him?”

Arthur snorted, unable to contain the response.

“Oh, do not act like that would be so terrible,” she scolded him, successfully stopping more derisive noises from slipping out. “You are old enough to know better.”

“I know, I know. It’s just… things are complicated.”

“Uncomplicate things,” she said as though it were just that easy.

Arthur had contemplated it before, thought about owning up to every ounce of his feelings for Eames. But he was too chicken. How was he supposed to start that conversation, anyway?

“Just be honest,” she replied, answering the question he had thought had purely been in his head. “And when you are done, come home.”

“Okay,” he murmured, unsure of what else he could possibly say. He had always taken his mother’s advice, followed what she said without hesitation because she knew what was best for him and he trusted her implicitly. But he wasn’t sure about this advice. As long as he didn’t actually outright say anything to Eames, he couldn’t be shot down and that seemed easier than being honest. The safety of his own heart was more important, surely.

“Joyeux Noël,” he said, ending the call before he could get more of a lecture from his mother.

Arthur stared at the phone in his hand, running a thumb around the edge as he thought about what his mother had said. He’d known Eames for seven years, had spent seven years harbouring—and developing—feelings for him. Maybe it was time he owned up to it all, finally said something so he could see if those feelings were returned or if he needed to get over it all and move on.

That thought alone nauseated Arthur.

Arthur took a deep breath, standing and pouring himself another whiskey as he searched for Eames’ number in his contacts. He could have dialled the thing by memory alone but his hand was shaking and he didn’t trust that he would press the correct numbers.

“Hello, Frederick Eames’ phone, how may I be of service today?”

Laughter filtered down the line, choking the words Arthur was about to say. He could pick Eames’ familiar teasing tone out. There was a fondness in it that he couldn’t stand.

“Hello?” the person on the other end of the line asked, before muttering to Eames. “Do you have a creepy stalker or something?”

Before he could hear Eames’ response, Arthur ended the call, breath coming in short, harsh gulps.

Eames was  _ with _ someone.

Eames sounded happy.

With someone that wasn’t him.

“Fuck.”


	8. Winter Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Winter Wonderland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VS0_70aWkqw) by Diana Ross
> 
> Eames POV (age 29)

There were a million things wrong with celebrating Christmas in summer but he couldn’t bring himself to voice them, not when Arthur was on the other side of the table, sunglasses on, slicked back hair shining in the light. He looked glorious and Eames couldn’t tear his gaze away.  _ Wouldn’t _ look away was probably more apt, if he was being honest with himself.

“Dom said they’d be here,” Arthur said, cutting through the silence they had lapsed into. “It’s typical that they’re late.”

“Don’t fret, pet,” Eames murmured around his glass. “Mal mentioned something they needed to sort before coming.”

“What?”

“Something with the sprogs.” Eames couldn’t actually remember if Mal had said anything about the kids but it seemed like the right thing to say, judging from the way Arthur relaxed back into his chair. “You right?” he asked, unable to stop himself. Even though Arthur had sunk backwards, appearing for all the world to have relaxed fully, Eames knew he still held tension in him. It was obvious in the set of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw, the tiny crease between his brows. If they hadn’t spent years working together, Eames was sure he would have been fooled like Arthur wanted. But they had and Eames knew Arthur, knew all the little tricks he liked to utilise.

“Yeah,” Arthur hummed, looking out over the railing next to them.

Eames had to admit, what the Aucklanders called their ‘Viaduct’ was rather pretty. Seeing those islands off in the distance, the water lapping rhythmically, it all filled Eames with an odd sense of belonging. He was just one piece in the world, the enormity of it quietly terrifying him.

“What are you thinking?”

“Don’t you miss it all?” Arthur asked, avoiding and answering the question at the same time.

Eames wished Arthur would look at him, turn those rich, syrupy eyes on him. “Miss what?”

“Miss your home, your family, being with the people you love. Isn’t there someone back in England that you miss more than the rest? More than anything else in the world?”

Eames opened his mouth, ready to say something. He wasn’t sure what would tumble out but he wanted to answer the question.

“Forget it,” Arthur said, barrelling over Eames’ stunted stuttering. “Why do you think they play these ridiculous songs down here? Winter wonderland my ass. More like a summer hell hole.”

“It’s not all that bad, is it?” Eames asked, leaning forward in his seat. Arthur’s previous question was still playing in his head, an answering forming without much effort.

“I suppose not,” Arthur sighed, briefly glancing over at Eames before turning his gaze back to the calm water before them. “It’s been summer all year, hasn’t it? Stuck in an endless cycle of sun and heat. I want snow. I want layers. I want to fucking cuddle someone.”

“Arthur,” Eames said, reaching out a hand to draw his attention back. He didn’t know what he could possibly say, maybe offer to cuddle with him. But that was downright ridiculous. It was a surefire way to end up with a bullet in his head, he was positive.

But the last time they’d been in New Zealand, Arthur had kissed him.

_ Arthur _ had kissed  _ him _ .

“Is there someone you miss?” Eames asked when Arthur looked over at him. He knew what answer he was hoping for: that there wasn’t anyone in the world that Arthur missed because he couldn’t miss someone he was already with.

“Yes.”

Eames’ heart sank. He could feel it drop into his stomach at that one little word.

“What about you? It’s only fair that you answer.”

“In a way,” Eames replied, hoping his voice was more composed than he felt.

Arthur raised a brow, silently asking him to elaborate.

“There was a moment with someone and I had thought… I wanted something more to happen. But it turned out to have been a mistake, at least on their part. They don’t fancy me like I fancy them.” It was odd, admitting to something without explaining properly. It was odd, telling Arthur without  _ telling _ him. Eames wasn’t sure he could take it if he finally said the words aloud, finally told Arthur everything, especially since there was someone Arthur was desperately missing.

Wasn’t that just a kick in the nuts?

“Do they know?”

“I had thought it was obvious.”

“Eames—” Arthur started, halting when his eyes shifted to Eames’ arm.

He’d moved it because it was getting uncomfortable being squashed against the back of the chair like it was.

“Is that—?”

Eames glanced down, frowning at his own hand. “Is that what?”

“The watch,” Arthur said, reaching but drawing his hand back before actually touching Eames.

“Oh,” Eames breathed, smiling up at Arthur. “Yeah. It is. I never take it off.”

“Really?”

Eames nodded, fingers rubbing over the face. “It’s my favourite thing in the world, second to only one thing.”


	9. I'll Be Home For Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I'll Be Home For Christmas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dL71eMc1blw) by Bing Crosby
> 
> Arthur POV (age 27)

Arthur couldn’t believe that the first job with Eames after a year had turned into such a shit show. He should have known Alexander would turn on them, ruin any chance they had at actually pulling the whole thing off. Eames had seen it coming and, the minute they were safely in the hotel, had let Arthur know exactly that.

It had been a point of contention and Arthur was sick of hearing about it.

“Get fucked,” Arthur growled, pacing in front of the French doors he’d just closed.

He’d been cooped up in the same room with Eames for eighty-six hours and, as much as he liked the guy, he was starting to grate on his nerves. There were only so many times a day he could hear “I told you so” before he wanted to put his fist through a wall.

Thankfully, he’d resisted the urge, though he couldn’t say the same for his desire to down several tiny bottles of alcohol from the minibar. The bill was going to be astronomical when they left, but he didn’t care. Eames was there, taking up every inch of the room with his sprawling, lazy tendencies, with his cologne that was starting to choke Arthur. Though, he was fairly certain it was because he was stuck in a hotel, the only escape being the bathroom, without any chance of getting some relief from Eames.

And fuck did he need relief.

“Sod off,” Eames bit out, his patience clearly wearing thin as well. “You threw my phone off the balcony.” Eames stood, stalking closer to Arthur. Frustration radiated off him, tension filling the room until it was almost palpable.

Arthur was positive he could touch it if he only reached out. “You deserved it,” he said instead.

“I was playing a game!”

Arthur rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath and turning from Eames. “You needed to ditch the phone anyway.”

They’d had arguments before, minor petty disagreements in the past three days that had resulted in them both sulking on other sides of the hotel room. Arthur figured this would be the same. Eventually, they would both get back to their bantering friendship and forget that this whole thing had ever happened.

Of course that was too much to hope for.

“You’re such an arrogant tosser.” Eames poked him in the shoulder, finger digging in uncomfortably and forcing him to take a step back. “Always bloody well telling me what to do.” Another prod to his shoulder. Another step backwards. “With your slicked back hair and dimples.” Eames pushed him, palms flat against both shoulders this time and Arthur hit the wall, back pressed firmly against it. 

Arthur swallowed hard, heart pounding against his chest so hard he was positive Eames should have been able to hear it. They’d never been this close before, never close enough for Arthur to tell that Eames’ lips were chapped because he hadn’t been drinking enough water.

It was torture.

“You’re not exactly the Queen of fucking England yourself,” Arthur bit out, unwilling to let Eames getting away with insulting him. Even if the closeness was kind of nice, Arthur never let  _ anyone _ talk to him that way. No matter how attractive they were. “Your accent and pretty lips might make people fall at your feet, but you’ve got a long way to go before you can colour me impressed.” He tried to make the comment as derisive as possible, dripping with as much venom as he could, but it was near impossible with Eames in his breathing space. It was hard enough to concentrate on anything other than the heat radiating off him.

Arthur should have had more control than to let physical proximity get to him.

“I don’t need you to be impressed, Arthur. I just need you to do your job without getting distracted.”

“Maybe if you weren’t shoving things in your mouth all the time I wouldn’t have missed Alexander fucking us over,” Arthur countered, the words slipping from his lips before he could catch them.

It took a few seconds for him to realise what he’d said, that he’d gone and made a huge mistake, especially since Eames had leaned back from where he had nearly pressed himself against Arthur entirely, eyes wide in surprise. He needed to make a hasty retreat, maybe even find a new hotel to hide out in. Surely he’d be able to find somewhere else to go without being spotted.

Eames’ tongue darted out, wetting his lips and for a brief second, one tiny moment between heartbeats, Arthur actually thought Eames was going to kiss him. He was positive the distance was being closed, Eames’ eyes darting between Arthur’s lips and eyes.

Arthur wasn’t sure what he was ready for this.

“Arthur,” Eames sighed, breath ghosting over Arthur’s lips. “Can I—?”

Shrill beeping interrupted Eames, grabbing both of their attention.

His phone.

It was  _ his _ phone ringing.

His personal one.

The one his mother had the number for.

“Shit,” Arthur mumbled, pushing Eames out of the way as he rushed to answer. “Allo?”

“Oh, Arthur,” Bethany sobbed down the line.

“What happened?”

“It’s mom.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said, ending the call and dragging a hand through his hair as he looked around the room already formulating a plan in his head. He didn’t care if Alexander and his goons were still lingering, waiting for him to make a mistake. Arthur had to get home and he had to go immediately.

“I’ve gotta go.”

He left the room to Eames calling his name. Arthur just hoped he had enough sense to stay indoors until the coast cleared. He’d check in later, after he made sure his family was safe.


	10. Silver Bells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Silver Bells](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7krA-BC4a6o) by Atlantic Starr
> 
> Eames POV (age 31)

Everywhere Eames looked, there was Christmas. The store windows all decorated in their holiday finest; green, red, gold, and silver all teasing Eames into wishing he was feeling more in the holiday spirit.

It wasn’t his fault.

Since Arthur had disappeared just before last Christmas, Eames hadn’t found anything to be cheery about. He had sent thirty emails and texts to Arthur and every single one of them had bounced back, informing Eames that Arthur didn’t want to talk.

He couldn’t figure it out, hadn’t been able to get past the idea that he had done something so terrible the last time they’d seen each other than Arthur had desperately escaped Eames and was now hiding out. It didn’t seem like Arthur, though. The Arthur Eames knew was more likely to be direct about things he didn’t like.

But rationality had never really had a strong footing when it came to Eames.

Eames dodged a couple lingering over a window display, smiling blandly at them when they murmured apologies for being in the way. He wasn’t in the mood for conversing with people. He wasn’t entirely sure he could actually have a conversation with anyone without biting their head off. Mal had tried a few days earlier, tried to convince Eames to go to Los Angeles and spend the holidays with her, Dom, and the kids. As much as Eames loved Mal, he couldn’t subject himself—or them—to all of that this year. It wasn’t fair on anyone.

Thankfully, his flat was quiet, empty save for the furniture it had all come with when he’d rented the place. He hadn’t bothered decorating since he wasn’t in the mood. The only thing Eames had bothered to put up was the red tie Arthur had left behind last year when he’d made a mad dash out of the hotel room.

Eames threw himself onto the bed, leaving his coat on, and stared at the tie pinned to the wall next to him. He ached to hear Arthur’s sardonic voice, to hear a single dismissive word filter through those perfectly rosy lips, to see those dimples press firmly into Arthur’s cheeks as he attempted not to laugh at something stupid Eames had said.

God he was such an idiot.

There had been too many ‘almosts’ for Eames to continue pining away like he was. An entire year without any word for Arthur should have been enough of a sign for Eames to give up.

It would be enough.

Eames pulled his phone from his coat pocket, unlocking it and pulling up the one number he had for Arthur. The one that had been bouncing back every text he’d sent in the past year. This would be the last message, the final one, and when it bounced back, Eames would forget that he’d spent a year trying to get in touch. Eames would forget that he had been so close to getting what he wanted the previous year. Eames would move on with his life.

[ _ Wherever you are in the world, know that I’m thinking of you. Merry Christmas, darling. _ ]

He waited for the little red exclamation mark to show up, for the screen to read ‘Message Failed’, but it didn’t. The little ‘whoosh’ of the message being sent shocked Eames enough to sit up, gripping the phone tighter.

The message had sent.

The number was active.

It wasn’t meant to have sent. It was meant to have bounced back.

Eames gripped the phone, staring as three little dots popped up on the screen.

Minutes passed and Eames sat there, staring at those dots, watching as they disappeared then reappeared, flickering in and out of existence like the tease Arthur was.

[ _ I’m thinking of you too. _ ]


	11. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPVdK8B6pUY) by Glen Campbell
> 
> Arthur POV (age 29)

Arthur waited at the baggage claim, watching the slow crawl with mild disinterest mostly because excitement still tore through his body, thrumming a mile a minute.

It made a nice change from the drowsy, haze-filled months that had been his last two Christmases. First losing his mother then Mal, it had torn at Arthur until he hadn’t wanted to do anything but sleep. Sleep was a way to be closer to them, to make sure he never forgot the two French woman that had shaped his life.

But Dom had needed him.

Phillipa and James had needed him.

His collapse had lasted all of two weeks before he’d dragged himself out of the stupor and took control.

Now he was standing in LAX, surrounded by noisy travellers desperate to get home.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, trying to be subtle as he made sure the rest of the team were safely getting out of the airport. Hell, he even watched as Dom went through customs, a heavy sigh escaping him as Dom was stamped through without any issues.

The flutter of his carefully chosen orange name tag brought his attention back to the carousel. Arthur cursed, scrambling for his suitcase as it trundled past him. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered as he pushed past people, realising far too late that he was creating more of a scene than he should have been. But part of him didn’t care, a really big part actually, when he saw Eames standing there with a cart, Arthur’s bag sitting innocuously next to his.

“We shouldn’t—”

“Be seen together. Yes, I am fully aware of your rules,” Eames said, finishing Arthur’s sentence with an ease Arthur was insanely jealous of.

Eames had been that way for practically the entirety of the Fischer job, unfairly unflappable except for when he’d declared he was sitting the job out. Even when they were being shot at, Eames had been collected enough to work in tandem with Arthur.

Arthur had forgotten what that was like.

“Come on, then,” Eames said, pushing the cart without another word.

Arthur scurried to catch up, hissing at Eames that this wasn’t how things were done, that they needed to separate in case Fischer saw them and put two and two together. But Eames just continued, ignoring Arthur as they climbed into the back of a cab, as he checked into a hotel, as they stood with a bellhop in the elevator all the way to the room, even as Eames poured the both of them a drink from the minibar.

“Remember the last time we were in a hotel together?” Eames asked, handing Arthur a glass of whiskey before settling into the single armchair by the window.

“Other than in the dream?”

Eames nodded, eyes dark with something Arthur couldn’t put his finger on. He’d prided himself on knowing Eames’ moods, understanding what was going on in that head—at least enough to get by—but he was at a loss for where this conversation was going.

“Yes.” He remembered it vividly; the way Eames’ breath had felt against his lips, the pounding of his heart when he had thought all of his dreams were going to come true only for it all to come crashing down with a single phone call. It all played over in his head, on repeat, and had haunted him ever since. When he wasn’t busy tearing at his own hair through his grief.

Too many things had been lost.

“Do you wonder what might have happened if your phone hadn’t rung?”

Arthur’s gaze snapped to Eames, finding that where he had emptied his glass already, Eames’ was still full and Eames’ eyes were glued to him.

“I do,” Eames continued, apparently not expecting a reply. “I’ve thought about it every bloody day for the past two years.”

“You what—?”

“Don’t play dumb, Arthur. I’ve thought about it, analysed it, played every possible scenario out in my head,” Eames said, gaining confidence as he placed the glass on the table next to the chair. “And I know what would have happened next.” He stood, slowly walking towards Arthur who was still standing by the door, unable to move anymore. “Tell me if I’ve got it wrong, Arthur, tell me and I’ll go away. You won’t see me again.”

“No,” Arthur said, shaking his head and stepping forward when Eames frowned, steps faltering. “You haven’t got it wrong.” There was something to be said for admitting the truth. Though, he wasn’t sure he liked the tightness in his chest. 

Eames moved swiftly, grabbing Arthur’s glass and tossing it onto the chair before slowly backing Arthur into the door. “Turn your phone off.”

Arthur blinked, trying to link the demand to the previous conversation. “Excuse me?”

“Turn your phone off,” Eames repeated, dipping his hand into the inner pocket of Arthur’s jacket. “I am not bloody well getting interrupted again.”

Arthur grabbed the thing from Eames, quickly pulling the battery out and snapping the SIM. He tossed it all to the floor. “Better?”

“Much. Ta,” Eames said and placed his hands on either side of Arthur’s face. “Last chance to tell me to fuck off.”

Arthur shook his head, the only thing he was willing to do for fear of ruining whatever was happening. He wasn’t convinced he wasn’t still dreaming, in all honesty. Arthur slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers rubbing over the small red die.

Reality.

Eames watched Arthur’s movement, eyes tracking the tension as it slipped from Arthur. He grinned and closed the space between them, lips light as feathers as they brushed against Arthur’s and that was all it took to wake him up, for him to be present in what was happening.

This was reality.

He gripped the lapels of Eames’ jacket, pulling him in as he kissed Eames until he couldn’t breathe.

Arthur broke the kiss with a gasp, tipping his head back against the door. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”


	12. I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vGPplLaVC0) by Wizzard
> 
> Eames POV (age 33)
> 
> ***
> 
> I know this was meant to be daily and I apologise for skipping a day, but hopefully you can forgive me!  
> This is the last chapter!  
> I hope you've all enjoyed the lil ride and maybe found some new (or old) favourite Christmas songs!  
> Happy Holidays friends!  
> Stay safe and celebrate sensibly!

Christmas was, in Eames’ opinion, the best time of the year. His fondest memories revolved around the holiday and it was an anniversary of sorts.

The first time Eames had met Arthur was at Christmas. Their first kiss—even though he didn’t like thinking of it as their first kiss—was at Christmas. They finally got their act together at Christmas. This wasn’t the first Christmas they’d been apart but it was the first one that Eames was really miffed about.

He couldn’t do a proper anniversary if Arthur wasn’t there to celebrate with.

Eames sighed into his pint, swirling the mostly frothy liquid around. He didn’t even feel like having a drink but it had seemed the thing to do. He wasn’t at home. He wasn’t with Arthur. What else was there to do but drown his sorrows?

“You looking for some company?”

Eames grunted, ignoring the person as they sat on the empty stool next to him. He really wasn’t interested in being picked up or going home with anyone and said as much, the polite filter in his brain completely switched off without Arthur there.

The person just laughed in response, a deep, warm, thrilled, musical laugh that tugged at something deep inside Eames. “It’s good to see your loyalty is still intact.”

“Arthur?” Eames glanced up, wide-eyed, and took his neighbour in. He was pleasantly surprised to see Arthur’s hair curling over his forehead, eyes bright, dimples out in full force.

“Don’t sound so surprised to see me. Not when you followed me home.” Arthur grabbed Eames’ glass and downed the remainder of the now slightly warm beer, grimacing only a small amount as he set the glass back on the bar. “Come on, then. It’s time you met my family.”

—

“I never knew you had sisters,” Eames said, voice soft with sleep.

“You never asked,” Arthur replied, nuzzling deeper into Eames’ chest.

After all the excitement of the day—something Eames had never considered when he’d tracked Arthur to his hometown—snuggling with Arthur seemed like the best way to end it all. Tomorrow was Christmas Day but Eames already felt as though he’d been given a lifetime of presents. He didn’t need anything other than Arthur right where he was.

If only it weren’t for the fact that his arm was starting to fall asleep.

“My dad liked you,” Arthur said, shifting when Eames nudged him.

“Of course. Everyone likes me.” Eames grinned unable to contain the laughter when Arthur hit him in the chest.

“My mom would have loved you.”

“Darling…” Eames grabbed Arthur and pulled him back in for a hug. He’d never had to face losing his mother and could only guess at how much the holidays stung for Arthur, but, since he was allowed to touch—and did so liberally—Eames ran a hand down Arthur’s back in as soothing a gesture as he could. “I’m sure I would have loved her as well, if she was half as amazing as you are.”

“She was better.”

There wasn’t anything Eames could say that would make Arthur feel better. Everything sounded empty, pitiful attempts to help soothe a wound that would never fully heal. Eames decided silence was the best option, the only one really if he wanted to continue holding Arthur close, to not lose him.

Now that he had Arthur, Eames wasn’t willing to let him go, no matter what. It wasn’t exactly a hardship, though. Not when Arthur was just as beautiful as Eames had always dreamed he was. There was a level of perfection in Eames’ eyes that had absolutely nothing to do with the way Arthur looked but everything to do with how Arthur acted. Even when he was prattling on about how much a pain in the arse Eames was, he knew there was a level of affection that drove the annoyance.

It was everything Eames had wanted and nothing like he had ever dreamed.

“Next year,” Eames said, brushing strands of hair off Arthur’s face to press a kiss to his forehead. “You’re coming home with me for Christmas.”

“Obviously.”


End file.
